


Long Enough

by orphan_account



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Alternate Universe?, F/M, Flushed Romance | Matesprits, Pre-Scratch?, maybe? - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-03-30
Updated: 2013-03-30
Packaged: 2017-12-06 22:32:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 1,968
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/740905
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The package, you remember, I must deliver the package.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> So I wrote this for my friend, whose OTP is now my most favorite thing in the world. I may have gotten a little fluffy at the end, sorry...
> 
> This was written with two endings. I will only post the first of these two at this time. Neither me or my friend are caught up, and since I am further than her I don't want to accidentally give any spoilers.
> 
> I guess this counts as pre-scratch, but I wouldn't know yet, having just started Act 6 myself :)

The Tunnel, as always, is damp, dark and dirty. A musty stench permeates the stale air and wretched shadows of tired refuges slip across the slick walls, crooked under the wan lighting provided by spluttering oil lamps. You can barely see your feet- but judging by the awful sloshing sound, you are rather glad you can't.

The underground passages beneath the city are territories you infrequently visit, and for this you are horribly grateful. Refuges from the city mere yards above your head come down here in waves, seeking shelter from the severity of society. Most of the desperate, worn souls you happen across were once lively and determined men who set their lives on the line for their leaders. However, the ugly burden of war is disgustingly heavy. It breaks their spirits and bodies alike.

You are never sure which one gives first.

Your arm feels like lead, dangling by your side as you drag along the iron sword. At first you were hesitant- appalled, even- when you were presented with the damn thing. But you kept it, just the same. Bitterly you suppose this had been a rather good idea, what with those shifty eyes piercing the dark that seem to trace every move you make.

_The package_ , you think, _You must deliver the package_

You dare not remove the small box from the safe confines of your bag. This you clutch tightly to your chest, never letting it so much as an inch from your person.

It was too important. The situation was too dire.

It took some time, but eventually the Tunnel came rather abruptly to a fork. It takes you a moment before you can recall the directions, your feet shuffling awkwardly in the greasy puddles of vile liquids you'd rather not recognize. Finally you remember the right direction and continue your journey on the left path.

It seems that the deeper under the earth you pass the more decrepit and abandoned the pathways become. What used to be lined with slumped figures hacking and groaning, bandaging wounds and grinding teeth, were now filled with quiet, staring gazes that gave you the unsettling impression that they _knew_ where you are headed and what it was you are carrying.

The White Queen had advised you go be on your guard. She even offered an escort, a strict man by the name of AR- but you foolishly turned down her offer, figuring a quick trip through the tunnels wouldn't prove too difficult.

As you round a turn uncomfortably and notice the already sparse lighting dissipate further down the hall, you begin to regret your decision.

The soft patter if little feet sends shivers up your spine and your skin crawls like nothing else. This is the last time you will take to the Tunnel for an assignment. No ma'am, it's the surface life for you. Not even the most important delivery could convince you otherwise.

Not that anything could be more important than your current task...

It is all to easy to succumb to the cold suffocating dread that scrapes it's rusty claws up your spine. Those little, stuttering footsteps you had assumed belonged to rats and mice and nasty, dirty creatures that had crept into the Tunnel like those suffering back a little ways towards the entrance- they belonged to no animal you ever heard.

They were the footsteps of a man.

Panic grips your heart like a vice, constricting, binding, encompassing. Your breath catches in your throat, refusing to leave and making your head spin. The footsteps picked up, faster now, a crescendo, mere yards behind you.

You run.

The Tunnel is a vile place. The refuges know this, those above the dark, echoing expanse of winding pathways know this. They came here all the same, but only sticking to the first mile or so of the wretched and sloping spiderweb of rotting walls and floors. It was once a great network of tremendous value. An indispensable tool in espionage facilitated by the rival gangs- lead by the White and Black Queens. It had been magnificently lit, spotless, well traveled. But then rumors of a great Reckoning had risen. The Tunnels were abandoned. Only those fleeing the torture of war ever crept down here, where Black and White were faded to grey under the faint lighting.

Grey like the floor beneath your feet as you frantically sprint barely feet away from your pursuer. There was a sick, overwhelming feeling to your stomach; you knew he was after your package.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Your arm trembles before you. You squeeze your eyes shut.
> 
> You are going to die.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kind of small, I know. I'll have the next one up in a moment...
> 
> Blahhhhhhhhlvksddjkwdklfwr

Hope is a fickle thing. It grows- flourishes, even- in the barest of light. If it just barely catches the warm rays of the sun it will find enough cause to bloom in the chests of men who have cast all else to the darkness.

You begin to wonder- why, then, does hope not blossom under the flickering oil lamps?

_Will I die down here?_

_The sword_ , your mind scrambles for any means of escape, grasping at any chance of survival. It takes you a moment, but you finally force your arm, nearly dead on your body, to lift the heavy thing before you as you swing around in your Swan Song.

Your adversary halts not ten steps before you.

There is no denying where his loyalties lie; his pitch black uniform giving him away. There is no mistaking any portion of this beast for white. He stands with his shoulders back, head high in the air as he regards you with grim indifference. Behind him, a ruffle can be heard and he rolls his shoulders. Dark feathered wings open up behind him, drowning the light in a black hole. His ears stick up, and a snout takes place of his nose. He takes one step forward and draws a sword with his one arm and points the bloodied weapon at you.

Your own arm trembles before you. You squeeze your eyes shut.

You are going to die.

A flash- dark, red, terrible. There is a loud savage screech. You think he has hit you- your legs give out from under your body and you feel a harsh shove to your numb shoulder. The heavy iron sword crashes to the floor in a horrible, useless clatter.

The end, you believe, must be coming soon.

Another crash. What could he possibly be doing? You are curious now, even with this horrible sense of calming dread. You squint one eye open, hesitant even now as you search for your assailant.

A man stands by your side, reaching down with his free hand as he brandishes his sword with the other.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It happened in a moment, no longer than perhaps a second or two.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ahahahaaaa
> 
> So I tried to make WV kind of dorky (because he kind of is, right) but I don't really think I did it well uuughhgfwahhh... I didn't want to come out and say it, either, so its like little things he does that you can overlook easily and I'm just bad with indirect characterization ewwwww...

Your fingers tremble as you accept his hand. He hauls you up to your feet and gently pushes you back against the wall, his own fingers shaking as he takes a firmer grip on his sword and moves to stand before you.

_A Knight_? your mind offers solutions to the questions you find sweeping across your befuddled brain. You ogle, perhaps a bit rudely, at his back. He stands slightly shorter than you, his shoulders clothed in a tattered grey cloth- you think, at one point, it must have been white. He seems nervous, unsure, and the blade in his hands clumsily shakes before him.

Before you can so much as thank your savior, a rush of wind scatters your wits and sends ripples across the nasty puddles at your feet. Your Knight repositions himself to face the source of the gust, his feet squaring to the assailant.

Dark shadows flutter against the far wall. Your breath catches in your throat as your heart seizes in fear. Your hero stoops for a terrifying moment and claws at the floor, straightening up to pass you your sword. You accept it without a moments hesitation and face the darkness rippling before you.

The shadow melts into the faint light from the oil lamps. Your assailant steps lightly, quietly, slowly forward, half of his limber form illuminated. He gestures once, bony finger adorned with a precious ring crooking as it beckons. The Knight shakes his head frantically and you draw your package nearer.

There is a horrible crash and snarl, and in a rush the lights snuff out like candles.

Your Knight draws a breath and instinctively you press yourself into his side. He jumps perhaps the barest amount. It's rather endearing, you think. The sense of safety confuses you briefly, but you shake the thought off as his free hand grabs your wrist.

You are running again, flying through the drowning darkness. Your clothes scuff against the walls but you never touch them, you never collide with the harsh stone that you _know_ lays barely inches from your face. But the grip on your wrist is firm and confident, your Knight the only important thing now, the only thing real enough for you to believe in because you _can't_ believe in the monster behind you.

Wicked claws drag at your dress. Rapid, weightless footsteps ricochet around you faster and faster as the man covers ground. But your Knight presses further, faster, harder, skidding around corners that you hear your attacker crash into.

There's a light. At the end of the hall, small, dim, straining against the black.

Before you can scream a rush of wind picks up through the Tunnel and the terror behind catches you around your middle and rips you away from your hope.

It's slow motion. Every second spans for a decade. A moment, normally unappreciated in a breath of time- it drags on for a year.

Your Knight whirls around and slips for yards in the greasy puddles. Waves splash up by his knees and little crystallites of greenish black liquid catch those straining rays of light and refract, brilliant in the soft beams. His hands dive into the folds of his ragged clothes and he pulls back, a can tucked carefully in his fingers. He releases with easy practice and the pink cylinder spirals through the air in a perfect arc, aimed directly for the forehead of the monster whose cold fingers bite into your stomach.

You can read the label as the can draws closer, the black font spelling out the word "Tab," across the middle. By this time your Knight has stopped slipping backwards and he charges forward, blade tight in his hand.

The sick thunk and explosion of sweet smelling cool spray above your head alerts you to the arrival of the can. The cold fingers spasm against your stomach and rip away as the winged monster behind you recoils. You let yourself slip to the floor.

The sword flashes through the ribbons of liquid and slash through the shoulder of the injured beast. He snarls and drops his one hand to the fresh wound near his neck.

With a fury he jerks around and howls into the dark, snapping his wings and shooting off away from the light.

It happened in a moment, no longer than perhaps a second or two.

The adrenaline fades and you shake as you stand. Your Knight heaves, his chest rising and falling as he turns to you and drops the bloodied sword as if the weapon scorched his shuddering fingers. You realize then, that he has never had much use for a sword ever before in his life, and he will not be taking one up again.

_The package_ , you remember, _I must deliver the package_

You step forward and offer your package to the Wayward Vagabond.

He stumbles closer, smiling behind his worn clothes, and reaches out for the box. He passes it though, and grabs your wrist once more.

A different kind of slow motion washes over you. Your lips meet and you realize that even if the kiss lasted for the rest of your lives, it wouldn't be long enough.


End file.
